Do I Really Want to Die Here?

Do I Really Want to Die Here? I rode my bike to Póvoa de Varzim to arrange my death. Not the whole of it — a paperwork portion.

Póvoa’s hospital has an office that files end-of-life directives into the SNS, the national health system that will, if I filled out the form correctly, know what to do with me when I can no longer say.

The office was off the main entrance, and then off that, a room maybe eight feet by twelve, two desks, two computers, two women. The one who took mine was kind, and her English was thin, which is a hard combination for the subject at hand. I have no Portuguese. We got by the way people get by when they try.

I had filled out the form at home. I downloaded the Portuguese document and ran it through Google Translate to select from a list of ten or twelve items, each with a radio button, each a small door: yes to this, no to that.

The woman identified a mistake. I had agreed to scientific research and then a button later not. She reached for the whiteout. There is something about watching a stranger correct your position on your own death plans with a small brush of white paint. The room was getting warm. The thought crossed my mind that I should apologize, exit and return when I could express my death wishes without whiteout.

I wasn’t dying today. But now sufficiently embarrassed, I was eyeing the door. We were done; the document was entered into her computer. Success! I thought.

Later that day I received an email from the SNS. My directive had been received and was recorded. I can’t get that woman out of my mind.